Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [65]
They'd taken Layla's overalls and all the tactical gear she'd carried to Kurmastan, left her with only a white T-shirt and the spandex bicycle pants she'd worn underneath. She listened while a security team searched through her gear, which was spread out on a steel table behind her. Layla couldn't imagine what they were looking for and she didn't ask.
No point. They wouldn't answer me anyway...
Soon the guards left Layla alone, and there was nothing to listen to but the slow, maddening drip.
Then a loud clang startled her. Somewhere close by, a steel door opened and closed. Layla heard two pairs of footsteps clicking hollowly in the nearly empty cell. One man stopped at the table, and Layla heard a metallic click, like a latch being opened.
The second man loomed over her. He was thin, almost skeletal, with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and thin, expressionless lips.
"Do you know who I am, Agent Abernathy?" the man asked in a quiet, calm voice.
Layla shook her head. She'd been holding her body as still as possible, trying to keep her mind clear and focused. Now her lower lip began to tremble.
"My name is Christopher Henderson. I'm now in charge of the New York Division. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Layla said, cursing the tremor in her voice.
A strong hand seized her shoulder and an alcohol swab swiped her forearm.
"No," she gasped.
Layla tried to move but was pinned like a butterfly on display. Her mouth was parched, her heart thumped in her chest. She barely suppressed the urge to scream.
"This will hurt a little," Henderson warned.
Layla winced at the needle prick.
For a moment, she felt nothing. Then her limbs began to tingle as if they were on fire, burning from the inside. Layla jerked wildly as her muscles tensed uncontrollably, and she strained at her bonds. Moaning, Layla chewed her lip and tasted blood. The pain intensified, until it felt like her heart was pumping boiling lava through her veins.
Finally, Layla cried out. In a moment, the pain eased.
"That was only the beginning," Henderson said. "How much more agony you'll endure depends on whether or not I'm satisfied with the answers you give me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Layla rasped.
"Good," Henderson said, his tone obscenely cheerful.
"Let's begin..."
* * *
10:41:54 P.M. EDT
Under the 495 ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel
Jack Bauer examined the mangled wreckage in the glare of spotlights. Emergency beacons flashed around him. A number of local fire companies as well as the New Jersey State Police Bomb Squad had converged on the scene. When Jack showed them his CTU ID, they allowed him to pass through the police line to view the devastation.
The truck from Kurmastan had plunged almost two hundred feet off the ramp and slammed into a Conrail switching station. The cab had been crushed beyond recognition; the dead driver was still inside. Though its tank had ruptured, and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the area, there was no fire. Still, firemen spread flame-retardant foam on the spillage to reduce the chance of accidental conflagration.
When it struck the switching station, the frailer had cracked open like an eggshell, spilling its deadly contents onto the railroad tracks. The aluminum shell was so twisted, Jack could hardly make out the Dreizehn Trucking logo on its hull. Plastic-wrapped bricks of C-4 were scattered like confetti. The cargo bay had been stuffed with enough explosives to bring down the roof of the Lincoln Tunnel, or level much of Times Square, if either attack had been part of the terrorists' plan.
Among shattered crates of C-4 and an armory of guns and ammunition, Bauer counted two mangled bodies. A third corpse dangled from the top of a nearby telephone pole, where the crew of a Weehawken Fire Department ladder truck was preparing to bring it down.
Across from the tangled wreck on the railroad tracks was Waterfront Terrace Road. Its large marina complex and luxury restaurant were now being evacuated via the Hudson River. Jack could see a fleet of police