Head Shot (24 Declassified, Book 10)
In less than twenty-four hours, in a palatial hideaway in the mountains of Colorado, a group of America's most powerful industrialists will be gathering for their annual summit. The bizarre disappearance of all the members of a local crackpot cult—and of two ATF agents assigned to keep an eye on them—may have no connection whatsoever to the impending high-powered conference. But with so many corporate titans grouped together in one location, CTU can't afford to take chances.
Sent to investigate, Jack Bauer is immediately plunged into a maelstrom of treachery, terror, and slaughter as he uncovers clues to a devastating conspiracy that could leave America's most essential institutions in ruins. And now the rogue CTU operative has only hours to prevent the unthinkable—before the relentlessly approaching storm of blood and fire rocks his nation to its foundations.
side fronted east. Jack and Neal were closing on it when rattling sounded in back of the building. The two men froze. Silence reigned for a few heartbeats, only to be broken by a soft metal clangor. Jack whispered, “Don’t tell me that was bats.” Furtive rustling and rattling sounds came from behind the mess hall. Jack’s semi-automatic pistol, a 9mm Beretta, was in his hand; he didn’t even remember drawing it. Neal’s gun was drawn, too, a .357 magnum revolver with a shiny metal finish. He said,
Jack neared him. The other looked like the last of the mountain men, with dark shoulder-length hair and a full beard. He was clumsy, unsteady on his feet. Jack plowed into him sideways, slamming his right shoulder, upper arm, and elbow into the shaggy man’s left side, knocking him off balance. The shaggy man fell sprawling into the dirt, crying out in terror. He was still in the game. He rolled and got his legs under him, standing on his knees. His hand darted to his right side, drawing a knife
easy way to get rid of that mess, though.” She worked more keys and a mouse, and after a pause the subject’s image broke up only to be immediately reformatted. “This is how he’d look without the hair and beard.” Jack said, “Bingo! That’s him. That’s Reb.” She did some more manipulations. “Just to be sure, that’s how he’d look with a crew cut.” “That’s him all right.” The subject was identified as one “Weld, Gordon Stuart; aka Reb, The Rebel, Gordy, Gordo,” and a number of other aliases that
the seat cushions as the Mercedes rolled through the open gate and up the long curved driveway toward the mansion. Jack turned in his seat so he could look Bass in the face. He said, “Actually, we’re here to make an arrest.” Sandoval added dryly, “A routine arrest.” Bass reacted like he’d been zapped by an electric cattle prod. He bounced upright in his seat so abruptly that the top of his head barely missed hitting the roof. “What? You’re kidding!” Jack said, “No.” Bass sat leaning forward,
outward into empty space, rivets popping. The truck’s wheels spun, burning rubber. There was a giddy sensation of release as the rail gave way. Several feet of ground stood between the edge of the asphalt and eternity. The car slid across them under the truck’s relentless pushing and jostling. The car’s passenger side wheels ran out of ground and touched emptiness. There was a bump as the undercarriage hit the edge of the cliff and the car tilted downward. It hung there for a instant before a