Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [4]
Ahead, the man remained on his knees beside the black Explorer, seemingly oblivious to their approach. On his shoulder, the device was still pointed at the cloudless sky, where the silhouette of an aircraft had appeared. Suddenly one of the other men pointed toward the maintenance van and drew a weapon.
"Artillery! Get down!" Bauer warned.
The first shot blew out the windshield and roared through the cargo bay. It punched an exit hole in the rear door large enough to shake it off its hinges. Daylight flooded the cargo area as the steel door broke free.
Outside, the shooter aimed the .357 again — this time at Jack Bauer. Almeida swerved the vehicle onto a concrete access plate. When the front wheel struck, the van bounced high enough for the second shot to slam into the engine block instead of the cab. The van began to bellow steam and smoke as the engine locked. Forward momentum carried the stalled vehicle closer to the suspects, who were all scrambling for cover by now. Another shot blasted through the already-shattered window and into the cargo area. This time Jack heard a meaty thwack, a cry of surprise. Someone had been hit.
Finally the white van rolled to a halt, not fifteen yards from the Ford Explorer.
"Out! Move!" Jack shouted. He popped his own door and rolled into brown desert grass. Engulfed by a cloud of dust, he could barely see the black Explorer. From the shouts and sounds in his headset, Jack knew Blackburn and the rest of the tactical team had burst out of the side and rear doors of the crippled van and laid down suppressing fire.
Finally an opening appeared in the brown haze. Jack spied one of the suspects racing toward the concrete power shed. The other two had dived into the black Explorer with the third man. One was obviously wounded, the other clutched the unfamiliar shoulder-mounted weapon.
"Don't let them leave the area!" Jack cried.
Then he was on his feet. P228 in hand, he pursued the lone runner toward the power shed. A few yards away from the concrete block structure, a wave of hot gases washed over him, followed in a microsecond by an earsplitting roar. Jack was blown off his feet as the Explorer detonated in an orange fireball. The three occupants were engulfed. Completely immolated.
Clothing scorched, ears ringing, Jack stumbled to his feet and lunged forward. He slammed his back against the power shed's metal door — still hot from the blast. Fearing an ambush, he glanced to either side of the square hut, weapon clutched in both hands. Finally Jack dropped to the hard ground and rolled to the rear of the shed.
The man was right where Jack thought he'd be. "Freeze! Put your hands up."
He was maybe twenty-five. Thin torso but muscular arms. He wore black jeans and a leather vest, his oily hair long, a prominent gold front tooth. He was on his knees, one boot removed and clutched in his hand. He appeared ready to smash an object on the ground. He grunted something, but Jack's ears were still vibrating and he couldn't make out the words.
"I said freeze."
The man stared at Jack, then raised the boot. Jack lowered his weapon, crossed the space between them with a leap. He slammed against the man, using his shoulder to bring him down. The boot flew off into the scrub grass. The man struggled to rise, but calmed considerably when Jack placed the muzzle of the P228 against his temple.
"Move and I will kill you."
Vaguely, through the ocean's roar in his ears, Jack heard pounding footsteps. Two of Agent Blackburn's men appeared on either side of the power shed. Intimidating in full body armor and helmets, they trained their weapons at the suspect, who threw up his hands.
"Take him," Jack ordered.
One agent grabbed the man by his vest and hauled him off the ground. The other twisted his arms behind him and snapped plastic cuffs over the wrists. Jack rolled