Jack's lungs strained against his bruised ribs as he powered down the dirty alley, each breath painful and percussive. Above him, threadbare cotton strung between two buildings filtered weak shafts of sullied light. They particulated, then coalesced into a tenuous, milky beam on the alley floor.
He ran. Through ankle-deep clouds of sewer gas, and stinking little troughs of fetid debris, he ran toward the open light.
Jack could hear the distant din of helicopters swooping with their searching eyes. He didn't have long. So far he'd been careful to stay in shadow, to slink down alleys and to get lost in pressing crowds, but he would have to break cover eventually. The street loomed ahead.
He stopped and pressed his back against the brick wall, steadying his breathing. His side, gilled by stab wounds, tightened and pulled against his expanding chest. He blinked it away. One wound he considered. The other he would not.
It had happened only yesterday.
Water from a dripping window unit somewhere overhead snaked a thin trail down the rough surface, cooling his neck and back. He leaned his head into the slick wall, shutting his eyes tight. His heart thundered in his chest. Somewhere close, the fhwap-fhwap of chopper blades cut above the noise of the city. They were coming, and he had nowhere to go.
-0-0-0-
CTU was alive with activity. Previously empty cubicles were filled with personnel, their tense faces awash in the clean, white glow of their workstations. The prior calm that had settled among the three of them only hours earlier had been replaced by purposeful energy with one focus: finding Jack Bauer.
"Ms. O'Brien. Director?" Chloe looked at the young intern who had abruptly interrupted her thoughts. "I have the hourlies for you, Ms. O'Brien." Chloe took them nonchalantly, only glancing briefly at the data pad. She already knew what they said.
The coordinated effort to find Jack was thorough and enthusiastic. NYPD as well as the FBI were sweeping the area surrounding Jack's last known location (nowhere near the back lot where she last saw him, however) and were fanning out to cover all points of exit from the island. CTU coordinated the effort; Tim Woods had seen to that. She could only hope she'd given Jack enough time.
Chloe mounted the metal staircase, up to her new office. Hastings' name was still on the door, and the protocols, while activated exclusively via her authorization, were still in the subnet under his designation.
She sat down at the desk that was still not hers, and wondered nonsensically if items as antiquated and impractical as a stapler and a desk calendar would make her feel like less of an intruder. She doubted it.
With the touch of a button she activated the privacy shield, frosting the transparent office to opaque. She slid her hand under the top of the desk and depressed a switch, instantly locking the doors. Chloe accessed the old CTU database, her fingers flying over the keyboard, searching until she found the right string of code behind which she had hidden a contingency plan long ago. A way to help Jack.
-0-0-0-
The little shop in Chinatown looked like twenty other shops on the same street. Brightly colored placards festooned the green façade, conversely clashing and contrasting with its lipstick red trim. In the large front window, herbs, roots, and other exotics were suspended on a string to dry. Two white chickens, tied by the feet, hung flaccidly on either side.
From his shadowy vantage point across the street, Jack waited, watching the entrance. It was late, nearly closing, and Mr. Li would follow the last customer to the door before locking up for the night. He usually did.
Nearly fifteen minutes passed before a slumped and weathered elder Asian man stepped into the doorway and waved kindly to the departing customer as he elbowed and nudged his way to the crosswalk. Rush hour was madness and foot traffic was thick. Women carried bags of groceries, the tufted tops of carrots and baguettes jutting brazenly from the top. Families, rushing home or to dinner or somewhere else entirely scooted by closing venders, sometimes single file, hands linked and babies crying. A young woman in a pink skirt and sandals parked a bicycle illegally. The street, the sidewalk, and the storefronts hummed with life.
As Li stood watching his patron carefully navigate the colorful crowd of pedestrians, Jack stepped out from the shadow of the building, into the waning light. The shopkeeper saw him immediately, recognition flashing in his dark eyes. He glanced in Jack's direction, giving him an imperceptible nod as he turned and went back into the building. The man flipped over the "open" sign and closed the door behind him.
Jack drifted into the swiftly flowing current of people, keeping his head down. He reached the quaint shop's storefront and looked around furtively before pushing his way inside. A little silver turtle tinkled faintly above the door as he entered the small shop. It was dark inside, and close. The dry air smelled faintly of ginger, incense, and of the heady smell of animal blood.
Jack followed as Li made his way wordlessly to the back of the store, through a beaded curtain and into a small back room. He had known him for a year, since his illness. Since the headaches.
They were manageable at first, and the pain, although incredible, was inconsequential. Instead of ignoring it (which seemed to only magnify its veracity), Jack accepted the pain. It was a part of him, and he of it, its constant presence indiscernible from his everyday constitution. The spot-blindness that accompanied the headaches, however, was something altogether different.
The disturbing symptom was dangerously unpredictable. He couldn't drive, couldn't walk across the street for fear of causing an accident. The episodes of partial blindness came without warning and were long in leaving. When his doctors offered little more than narcotics, he had sought more alternative means.
Given his painful history with the Chinese, to say Jack had been skeptical at first would be an understatement. But this kindly man with the understanding eyes had done much to help him overcome his prejudices. After six months of acupuncture and holistic therapy, the headaches, and their frightening spells of blindness, were gone.
He sat down opposite Li in a brocade overstuffed chair that was clearly unaccustomed to stiff posture. He winced a bit, clutching his side as he eased into the too-soft cushion, and allowed himself to relax slightly if only to ease the strain on his ribs.
A young woman with liquid black hair and warm eyes appeared from an adjacent room, noticeably startled by the evening visitor. Mr. Li gestured with a withered hand. "Mei," Jack heard the man say in Chinese, "bring us some tea."
He looked at Jack then, appraising him coolly. The room was little more than a closet, and uncomfortably warm. A bare bulb illuminated the space, and Li's small, dark eyes twinkled in the wake of it. "Why did you come here?"
Jack swallowed, his senses alert and listening, the attitude of the hunted. "I need help, to get out of the country." He looked down, unsure of how to continue. "The police are looking for me. I-"
Mr. Li held up a dark hand, stopping Jack's diatribe. He noticed the abrasions, the perspiration on Jack's face. "You are injured," he said astutely, his eyes traveling to Jack's side. He motioned for him to show him, and Jack acquiesced. Mr. Li surveyed the wounds impassively, reaching to an adjacent shelf for a poultice or salve of some kind. Mei returned then, carrying a tray of green filigree cups and a squat teapot. She silently poured each of them a draught of the steaming liquid, all the while making a concerted effort not to look at Mr. Li ministering to the man's exposed chest.
She waited. Jack took the proffered cup gratefully, thanking her in Chinese, and she favored him with a polite smile. The tea was slightly bitter, with a hint of wolfberry, and he sipped it frugally before placing it on the low table between them. "I am sorry for coming here," Jack began, "but have nowhere else to go."
Mr. Li leaned back, his hands folded stiffly in his lap. His expression was slightly bemused as he looked at Jack from his own chair. "I have watched the television, Mr. Bauer. You are indeed a wanted man." He made a little gesture with his hands. "But, I cannot judge by what is shown to me, only by what I see. And what I know."
He looked at him then, turning his head slightly as if suddenly marveling at a new discovery. "You are in more than trouble," he intuited. "You are in pain. I know. I have seen it on you many times. What else has happened that you do not speak of?"
Jack looked away, avoiding the scrutiny of the old man's keen eyes. He lowered his head. "I have lost so much," he said almost imperceptibly. His voice, a painful whisper, was loud to him in the confined space. "I have lost everything."
Mr. Li looked at him evenly, but not without compassion. "What is there left for you, then," he asked quietly.
Jack looked at him, his eyes lifeless, his mouth firm. "Nothing," he said.
Mr. Li considered, then gave the faintest hint of a smile. "That is where you are mistaken. There is always something that remains," he drilled his chest with his finger. "In here."
He stood, extended his hand to assist Jack in standing. "I can help you leave the country, Mr. Bauer, but the journey is yours alone."
-0-0-0-
Continued in Chapter Two.