Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [14]
"How did the Marine Corps find out about it? The DEA isn't known for sharing intelligence with the military."
"I found out through a... personal contact. I know someone on the House Intelligence Oversight Committee."
Tony Almeida closed his eyes a nanosecond, stifled a groan. "Your father — he's Congressman Roy Schneider of Texas?"
The Captain nodded. To cover her discomfort, she changed the subject. "Have you retrieved any data from the memory stick?"
"It's encrypted. We have an expert on North Korean software trying to crack it now. No progress to report."
Captain Schneider felt it, just then. The instant chill. One mention of her father and there it was: clipped words, tense posture, guarded look. Amazing how fast he shifted, she thought. While she was not surprised by the CTU agent's reaction, she was more than a little disappointed that he had so easily — and predictably — made the same assumptions as everyone else. No matter how hard she worked, no matter what she accomplished, every time her colleagues discovered the identity of her father, they immediately assumed that she had attained her rank and position through nepotism rather than merit.
Captain Schneider rose, tucked the file under her arm. When she spoke, she added frost to her own voice. "Agent Almeida, I'd like to meet this expert of yours, see for myself how the decryption is progressing."
* * *
9:41:24 P.M. EDT
John F. Kennedy International Airport
Jack's first sensation was pain. His ribs felt bruised. Something warm and sticky had trickled from his head to the side of his face. He heard a crackle. Without moving a muscle, Jack slowly opened one eye to find a live wire dangling from a shattered panel near his head. When he glanced down, he saw the steel bracelet was still clamped to his wrist, but on the other end of the chain was a pair of empty cuffs, the key missing from his pocket. Jack took a deep breath and almost gagged on the thick smoke he'd thought for a moment was just his hazy vision.
The aircraft's interior emergency lights were still functioning, the fuselage tilted at an odd angle. Jack realized that he'd been thrown into a corner and the airline seat had broken loose from its mount and covered him. Squinting through his eyelashes, he saw Arete standing near an emergency exit. He was having trouble opening the door. The impact of the crash probably had jammed the hatch.
Stumbling through the smoke, the pilot emerged from the forward compartment, fumbled for the handgun at his belt. Arete froze, unarmed and helpless. Then a shot boomed loud, followed by another. The pilot was thrown back, into a bulkhead — dead before he hit the ground. Frank Hensley emerged from the shadows, reloading the Glock.
He looked at Arete. "Where's Bauer?"
"Why the hell should I help you, amigo? You were gonna shoot right through me."
"Don't be a jackass," Hensley replied. "I was bluffing. Talking tough. You should know all about that. Anyway, I just shot that pilot to cover your ass."
Arete rubbed his wrist where the cuffs had chafed him. Then he kicked the stubborn emergency hatch. "Bauer's over there, man. Under that goddamned chair. It don't matter anyway. We ain't getting out of here alive..."
Hensley glanced in Jack's direction, spied Bauer's legs sticking out of a pile of wreckage. He pulled latex gloves and a handkerchief out of his pocket, donned the gloves, and carefully wiped down the Glock with the handkerchief. Then he shifted the Glock to his left hand, drew his service revolver with his right, and approached Bauer.
Through his half-closed eyes, Jack had been watching Hensley. But playing dead in a burning aircraft was no longer an option. He had to act. When Hensley hauled the chair away, Jack grabbed the live wire above him and shoved the still-sparking tip against Hensley's left arm. The FBI agent yowled and jumped backward, simultaneously discharging the revolver and letting go of the Glock. The