24 Declassified: Trinity
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Operating out of a nearly empty space in Los Angeles, the newly created CTU faces its first major crisis. A large amount of plastique explosive has vanished and could be anywhere—with criminals, crazies, outlaw bikers . . . or in the bloodstained hands of Islamic radicals. As powerful representatives of the world's major religions gather for a conference on faith, peace, and coexistence, agents of the newborn elite counterterrorism unit must chase elusive shadows through the underbelly of L.A. A nightmare of assassination and terror is looming, tied to the darkest secrets of the church—an explosive threat that must be exposed and defused within twenty-four hours, or violent repercussions will be felt around the world.
And only one man possesses the necessary passion, ruthless skill, and willingness to operate outside his jurisdiction and beyond the limits of the law: a dangerous rogue CIA operative . . . named Jack Bauer.
What’s Robbery-Homicide got to do with it.” “Long story. Well, actually a pretty short story. It’s a turf war. Some new Federal unit is trying to throw its weight around. We think they’ve got their head up their ass, we want to get involved, especially when houses blow up in our backyard.” “Yeah, houses with me in them,” Jack said. “Tell me where to go.” He snatched Teri’s napkin and a pen and scribbled down some directions. “On my way. “I’ve got to go, honey,” he said, standing and kissing
the second time in one night, Jack was riding up the 405 Freeway on a motorcycle. This time it was on Dog Smithies’s impounded Harley-Davidson. There was no traffic at this hour, even on the northbound 405, and Jack literally flew out of the city and into the foothills. The Hell’s Angel in custody had given the police several pertinent pieces of information. First, Dean and his bikers expected to meet up with Smithies. Second, they’d never met him before, although they’d talked to him on the
wall had gone up between them. Jack looked at her and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like four o’clock in the morning. At this point I’m too shit-faced to know what they look like. And if I wasn’t shit-faced, I sure as hell wouldn’t choose this one.” This elicited a roar of laughter from everyone except Deb, who was insistent. “No, no, I’m serious, Dean. I’m sure I met that fat slob before. This ain’t him.” There were two directions: forward or backward. Jack wasn’t usually one for retreating.
Collins said with as much congeniality as four o’clock would allow. “Yes, thanks for calling ahead. I put on some coffee if you want it.” Harry followed Collins’s words and gestures into the small, well-kept house. There was an intricately carved crucifix hanging in a place of prominence in the entryway, but otherwise the house gave no indication of belonging to a man of the cloth. “What happened to your arm?” Harry asked immediately. Collins touched his right hand gingerly to his left arm,
picked up a probe and used it to push aside some of the dead tissue. “Look how it’s designed. A plate like this is normally used to brace a badly broken bone. But this one is a lot weaker. And look how the explosives are packed in there. I think if this were to explode, all this metal would go flying outward.” “Show him the receiver,” Harry said. Siegman used a pair of tongs to lift a small circuit. “Again, not my field, but if this is an explosive, I’m guessing this is a receiver.” The