Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [89]
"CTU doesn't need me..."
"We do need you. And I believe you've got what it takes to be an exceptional field agent."
Layla dismissed his praise with a wave. "I don't believe you."
"Don't you think there were times when I was on the outs?" Jack pressed. "I've been painted as a dirty agent, more than once. I've had my security clearance revoked, and I've faced prosecution. No one comes away clean in this business. You have to learn to stick it out, soldier through, keep your focus on what you know is right. That's the way to be true to yourself and your principles. Not quitting when things get a little rough."
Layla blinked and slumped back in her chair. She was quiet for a long moment.
Jack sat down beside her. "I know what you went through was terrible. But — off the record — I sometimes think that the bad things that happen to us are a kind of punishment for the things we're forced to do to others."
"It sounds like you're talking about yourself now," Layla softly replied.
Jack met her gaze. "Let's just say that I've done things I'd never want my family to know about. I don't want my wife, my daughter, to ever think of me that way..."
Jack's eyes drifted, his expression haunted.
"Twenty-four hours then," Layla said. "I'll give you that, Jack Bauer. We'll see if it changes my mind."
Her phone rang and she put it on speaker. "Abernathy," she answered.
"Morris here. I need you in Station One, to help monitor a situation. I believe we've located the last truck."
* * *
4:22:21 A.M. EDT
Peralta Storage
Crampton Street
Newark, New Jersey
"I hope you can hear me, Tony, because I'm about to go in."
Judith Foy warily approached the garage door of the old warehouse. She limped a little — hoping it would add to her cover story. She shifted the heavy metal box in her hand, then knocked on the boarded-up garage.
Silence. The place seemed to be as abandoned as it looked.
Foy knocked again, harder this time. She kicked the door for good measure, though her sneakers didn't make much of a sound.
She was about to knock a third time when a spy hole opened in the middle of the big door.
"Who the hell are you?" a voice demanded.
"Klebb. Sonya Klebb," Foy replied.
She flashed the dead woman's passport, too fast for the observer to notice the crude job she'd done replacing the picture of the dead woman with her own driver's license photo.
"I am a chemical engineer with Rogan Pharmaceuticals," Foy continued. "Soren Ungar sent me."
There was a long pause. Foy was about to speak again when a different voice, deep and booming, emerged from the spy hole.
"Where is Dubic?"
It's Noor, she realized. He's here.
"Dead," Foy replied. "We were attacked on the road. I think a gang was trying to rob us. Our car was struck by another vehicle. I was hurt. Dubic more so. Before he died, he told me where to go, made me promise to deliver the package here, to this address."
"I see. And do you have the package?"
"I do," Foy replied, displaying it.
On the other side of the garage door, she heard activity. Then a rumbling sound as the door partially rose.
"Inside, quick," a black youth said, gesturing to her.
Beyond the door, the interior was pitch-black, and Judith could see nothing. She stepped inside anyway, heart pounding in her chest.
Another rumble of machinery, and the door closed behind her. Then brilliant spotlights ignited, blinding her. Someone snatched the package out of her hand; other hands frisked her.
They were obviously looking for a weapon. She had none, and when they found her passport and Dubic's cell phone, they ignored them. She hoped they hadn't broken the phone circuit, but she couldn't check now.
"Is that the aerosol dispenser?" Ibrahim Noor demanded.
"Yes, yes it is," an accented voice replied. "I can install it in less than an hour."
"Do it," Noor commanded.
Judith blinked against the light, strained to see through her tears.
"Why did you come here?" Noor asked. "Who sent you?"
"I told you. Dubic..."
"If Dubic told you to come here, he would have given you the remote