24 Veto Power by John Whitman Page A

government employees, and learned that Shannon Bigsby was the assistant to the Attorney General.
    “Kim, Kim,” Kelly muttered, “what are you doing sharing dirty pictures?”
    He heaved a sigh, but it was not relief. Using Sniffer was the easy part. Sniffer could trace, but it couldn’t hack into computers, any more than a bloodhound could both find a fugitive and put handcuffs on him. For that, Kelly needed help.
    He punched an extension into his phone.
    “Bandison,” came the voice.
    “Jessi, can you come up here. I’ve got an exercise for you.”
    6:33 A . M . PST Beverly Hills
    Jack pulled himself up over the top of a wall for the second time that morning. This one couldn’t have been more different from the one at the Greater Nation compound. The inside of the wall was screened by twenty foot tall Italian cypress trees. Jack slid down between two of them, using them as a shield as he surveyed the backyard. To his right was a rectangular pool with a black bottom, and a cabana that probably doubled as a guest house, its windows dark. The left side of the yard was a wide expanse of grass sweeping gently upward to a marble patio and a row of glass doors leading into the three-story main house. He saw no movement in the house. If someone was watching him from a window, he was still and quiet.
    Jack moved carefully behind the screen of cypress trees until he was even with the cabana, then bolted for it, staying low and moving in a straight line. He reached the cabana and pressed himself against its wall, which offered him cover from most of the windows of the house. He listened to the cabana wall. He couldn’t detect any sound or movement inside. He hoped it was empty. There was a space between the cabana and the side yard wall and he crawled there, ignoring the cobwebs and the beetles scurrying on the wall, as well as the skittering sound that could only be a rat. Even Beverly Hills had rats—maybe more than its fair share. He reached the far end of the cabana, and now there was nothing but open ground between him and the doors. He watched again, looking for any signs of movement. There was none. He bolted.
    He reached the main house itself and melted into the wall. Carefully he peeked inside the nearest set of French doors, eight square panes of glass set in a white wooden framework. It was a den of some kind, and it was empty of people. He tested the door. Locked, which he expected. He hesitated, wondering what to do next. He could call CTU, but he wasn’t looking forward to convincing Ryan Chappelle or Kelly Sharpton that they needed to raid another Persian household because he thought Ramin Rafizadeh was alive. He could try to pick the lock, but that kind of work wasn’t his specialty and even if he could do it, it would take time. He could break the glass, but that would make more noise than he could afford.
    A sound from inside the house made his choice for him. It was a muffled scream, loud enough to sound urgent but not loud enough to carry very far. Jack turned sideways to the glass panes and jabbed his elbow sharply through the pane nearest the door handle. It shattered in what seemed to Jack to be a thousand screaming pieces. If someone was listening, he’d heard him. He hoped the screams upstairs covered his entry.
    Careful to avoid the glass, Jack reached through the now-empty rectangle and opened the door. He wasn’t worried about an alarm. Either the bad guys had disabled it and the rest of his entry would be quiet, or the alarm would sound, bringing the police. Either option was fine by him.
    No alarm. He slid the door open enough to slip inside, then closed it. He heard one or two angry voices somewhere above him, and another short scream. They were on the second floor. Jack kept his gun in front of him as he moved through the house, clearing each room that he passed. A hallway led out of the den and past three or four other rooms—maid’s room, laundry room, downstairs office, before opening