24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse by Marc Cerasini Page A

sparks, heard a sharp cry of anguish. The stench of ozone stung his nostrils, mingling with a raw smell of sweat, the metallic stench of blood. Sharp copper tips pierced flesh, electricity crackled and the suspect jerked and howled, yet continued to fight.
    Castalano pushed through the wall of muscle and black leather. His foot came down on the pavement and he slipped in a pool of blood—the Trooper’s carotid artery had been ripped open. Twitching, eyes wide in astonishment, the man poured his life on the ground while the maniac tore at him. Finally a booted foot crashed down on the back of the attacker’s head. The man grunted, went limp. Captain Lang followed with a second kick that sent the blood-soaked fugitive rolling off the Trooper and across the concrete. The other Troopers descended on the struggling man like vultures, punching and kicking.
    “No!” Castalano yelled, “take him alive.”
    More angry cries. Someone jerked the suspect to his feet. Though blood poured from his nose and his head lolled to one side, the man was still conscious. For the first time, Castalano got a good look at the suspect. He was five-nine or ten, maybe twenty-five, Middle Eastern. His clothes, his face were caked with gore. Fresh rivulets of blood rolled down his chin, his neck. Some of it was his. Most belonged to the State Trooper. There was old blood, too. Caked and brown. Hugh Vetri?
    The man’s eyes remained unfocused. Then he caught Castalano watching him. Helpless, his arms cuffed behind him, a dozen hands restraining his hands and legs, the man spat a mouthful of hot blood in Castalano’s face.
    “Hasan bin Sabah! The old man on the mountain! He sees all and when he moves his hand, no infidel will be safe.”
    The man spoke through battered lips and broken teeth, his eyes wild. Yet the words were spoken clearly, precisely, in an Oxford-educated accent.
    What followed his pronouncement was an incoherent scream. The man’s eyes glazed once again and he struggled anew. His cries were in another language now. Castalano figured it was some form of Arabic because the words Allah Akbar were repeated many times—never a good sign.
    “Get him into the chopper,” said Castalano in disgust. “I’m flying this bastard back to headquarters for interrogation.”
    As the suspect was hauled away to the clearing to await the helicopter, Detective Castalano stumbled suddenly, leaned against the hood of the smashed Jaguar. Gagging, he yanked a handkerchief out of his pants and wiped the gore off his face.
    He peered inside the Jaguar. The tan leather seats were brown with dried blood, but he could see no knife or any kind of murder weapon. He did notice several empty glass vials on the floor of the car. They looked like crack vials. Then Castalano saw a vial that was still full. It contained a blue crystalline substance, definitely not crack cocaine or crystal meth— he’d seen enough of both to know the difference. The crime scene unit from L.A. had not yet arrived and Castalano decided not to wait. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, reached into the vehicle and fumbled for the vial, which he quickly pocketed.
    When he was finished, Castalano looked up to find Captain Lang looming over him.
    “Good job,” the detective said hoarsely. “How’s your man doing?”
    A shadow fell across Lang’s face. He shook his head.
    9:27:14 A . M .PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
    Jack Bauer entered the conference room, clad in char-coal-gray slacks with a knife-sharp crease, a newly pressed cobalt-blue shirt. Ryan Chappelle, presiding over the hastily assembled meeting, looked up from his chair at the head of the table.
    “Good of you to join us, Jack.”
    Jamey Farrell sat tapping a pencil. Next to her Milo Pressman shuffled the pages of a print out. Nina Myers was there, too. She offered Jack a warning look.
    “Sorry about the mix-up Ryan. I should have returned to headquarters after the raid—”
    “That would have been nice,”