New chapter for you! Sorry this one took so long, my life has been crazy lately. Hopefully ill cheer up soon. Thanks, and drop me a review if you like! ~ Ellisaed
Chloe scrolled through the file list quickly. Though her eyes were drowsy they were ever used to the constant screen of numbers and letter patterns and binary codes. She knew she could pinpoint numbers faster than anyone at CTU, interpret truncated data and what not. As well as knowing exactly where to look, she knew exactly where not to. She knew how to hide things in the database.
Chloe glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no wary eyes found any curiosity toward her. CTU was particularly busy, even at an hour so late. Other agents went about last minute business, returning files and shutting down servers. Chloe had been assigned to reconfigure traffic security cams to position in surveillance of a Mosque in east LA, one CTU had been monitoring all day. Suspicious terrorist activity had apparently been going on there, but as soon as CTU had started keeping an eye on the place, nothing happened.
Buchanan had bumped it to top priority ever since Division had received the intel, but who ever believed Division anyway? That was why Chloe had put the task aside for a moment. Just a moment.
A maze of passcoded security links finally began to clear, and Chloe opened the file she kept safely buried. The list of phone numbers was growing increasingly smaller, day by day. She scrolled to the next one, not yet deleted from the list, slipping her earpiece on and dialling. The wait always pained her.
Chloe glanced to her left, seeing Edgar still on the phone with the LAPD about the mosque. By the tone of his lisped voice and the impatience in his stance, she knew he was getting fed up. If anyone took a crisis seriously it was Edgar, and he was always the first to do everything he could to stop it. He had only worked for CTU for a few years but he knew the system better than most of the senior analysts and was Chloe's go to guy, even before her husband. But nether of them knew about her secret file. And she intended to keep it that way -
"Hello?"
Chloe jumped slightly at the blaring voice in her ear, readjusting the volume level right away. Edgar glanced her way from the corner of her eye, but she turned away from him.
Chloe spoke subdued, enough not to be overheard, "Sorry. This is Chloe O'Brian from CTU, who am I speaking with?"
"This is George Billings, from Division." The voice sounded just as surprised as she was, "Miss O'Brian, is there a problem at CTU?"
"No . . . no sir, there isn't." Chloe huffed a sigh, "Actually, there kind of is. I was just . . . I'm going through a contact list of someone. I'm trying to find out where they might be. I haven't seen him in . . . five months. This number came up."
"Who exactly are you looking for, Miss O'Brian?"
Chloe closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip firmly. Just the thought, her body didn't take well to. It was like a closing in on herself, hiding memories and protecting things she never wanted to forget. Of course, he had gone away before. The world had thought him dead. Chloe knew it had been her purpose to keep his secret safe and hidden. To protect the things he loved.
But this time, it was different. He had left without a trace. This time, there were too many things she didn't know.
Chloe forced her eyes opened. She whispered the name, "Jack Bauer."
The silence on the opposite end did not indicate any hope. The voice cleared his throat, pausing. "Bauer. I haven't seen him, not for two or three years, miss. I haven't heard a word about him, even in the news, for months."
Chloe nodded, "Thanks anyways."
"I'll get back to you if I hear of anything - "
"You okay Chloe?"
Chloe turned, seeing Edgar standing behind her chair with that childish distress on his face. Chloe hung up the call, nodding to him.
"Yeah. I'm fine." She grabbed a couple of random files on her desk and rose, pushing past Edgar and hurrying away, somewhere, anywhere besides there.
Edgar watched her concernedly, seeing the urgency in her steps as she disappeared into a hallway. He wanted to help, but wasn't sure how he could. Edgar knew Chloe. He knew she wasn't mad, even though she acted like it. She was sad. He sighed, turning back to his own desk to continue his call.
The bar was shady, dimmer than most of the eyes of the half-drunk inhabitants lounging about. Neon signs buzzed and flickered in the cloudy windows. The place had been in business for the past forty years, and a dank kind of scent left over from the 70's seeped through the green carpet and all other aging fabric around. The dreary radio mumbled a slow Beatles song from the little stereo resting at the bar. Besides for that, things were quiet otherwise.
It was the late crowd, the ones who had consumed so much to drink they hadn't the wits to even stumble out. Some played snooker sleepily, but most still sat hunched over at the bar asking for another round, banging their glasses and talking to themselves or one another with that drunken glaze over their eyes.
The lone bartender lazily dried a few more shot glasses on his black apron. He ignored the clinking cups on the bartop, glancing behind himself casually to loosen his bowtie and check clock above the liquor shelf. 3:11 am.
He didn't particularity enjoy working the night shift, considering the constant customer service and occasional scuffle that broke out. Not to mention the lovely surprise of vomit clean up that would happen far more often than he would like. But it wasn't just the physical unpleasantries that would bother him. In a lonely place his mind would wander, constant reminders sifting through his head.
If he served a man with a scarred, burned face, it would evoke a sympathetic ache in him. If he saw a businessman hunched over and sometimes weeping in distress, memories were all too similar of someone he had known in his life. His job reminded him so much of his past, which was exactly what he was trying to forget.
Right then, he was more than reminded of his past. His past was practically slapping him across the face. And he didn't know what to do.
Jack Bauer had been undercover in various situations as various individuals around Los Angeles for the past three months consecutively. Between drug dealing and assisting black market sales to working at a grocery cashier, a bellhop and then a bartender, he had earned himself a fair amount of money, connections and intel. Even if things went well at one spot, he was sure not to overstay; if he ever sensed things were turning sour, a hurricane wouldn't stop him from getting out of one cover and into the next. It was crucial that he not reveal his identity, not even to anyone he grew to befriend.
Jack wasn't sure what he was doing. Ever since he had left, left CTU, left Audrey, he had been on the run, trying to escape. Escape everything. Escape the pain, the death, the relationships and stress and heartache and emptiness. But everywhere he went, no matter where he went, he could not.
He saw much death managing drug dealing in the backstreets of lower LA. Pain was constant, sometimes bullet wounds and others the usual bruised nose. Even in the slow work at the cashier he would notice when that one old woman, frail and sweet as anything, would suddenly not arrive on schedule one day. And not the next. And he would spot her picture in the memoriam of the newspaper. Even those small deaths hit him hard. Everything he touched . . .
He had befriended many on his way, especially as a bellhop. The relationships he tried to avoid, and for good reason too. When his cover had been blown there, it was a true struggle for Jack not to simply stay. He had hurt so many when he left.
It was a certain numbness that was beginning to take over his life, and Jack didn't stop it. Maybe, if he couldn't escape all the hardships, all the death and hurt, if he could feel nothing at all that would be better.
So he had. For the past two weeks he had not spoken to anyone. He barely ate, but continued his exercize regime harder than ever. He didn't make eye contact. He didn't smile. Jack felt nothing. And for once, if only pretend, the pain was gone.
But then, as stated, his past had returned, fierce and rushing as a storm squall. And Jack couldn't stop the feelings.
The bartender shifted his stubbled jaw, one way and then the other. Placing his last cup back atop the shelf his eyes shifted causally, but really with intense scrutiny, to the three middle-eastern men sitting at the far corner of the bar, almost hidden from the flickering light above them. When the bulb lazily swayed their way, the tender could see an elderly man that was dressed in a traditional headpiece and sported a thick, dark beard. The other two men were certainly younger, probably the older ones sons, one of them smoking.
From what he had overheard, and was still overhearing, something was up. The word "CTU" had been just about enough to send Jack's mental state into overdrive. But he kept his cool, grabbing a broom and sweeping in their direction, head bowed, listening once again.
". . . and don't think I didn't expect such a response, that is for sure."
"The others have every right to be cautious. This isn't some stupid fantasy anymore - this is real."
The voices were low and muffled, and the language wasn't English. Surprisingly, it was Russian. Jack didn't allow himself any suspicion yet. He simply listened.
"But you said he had the device in his care," Those words were whispered especially soft, by a younger man, "What could he possibly want to do with it if he hides it away?"
"Don't be stupid . . . it is only for protection. CTU had targeted them for years - "
Jack tensed at the word.
" - and they know what will happen if word leaks too soon."
"When? When should we begin?"
"Tomorrow. The target has already been contacted . . . "
There was a pause, longer than the natural flow of conversation. Jack cursed under his breath, hoping they had not noticed him. When it lingered, Jack looked up and saw the men looking right back at him. Three pairs of dark eyes, thin with suspicion.
Jack knew he had to do something. It took him three seconds to decide his approach. He cleared his throat, preparing a semi-disguised tone of voice.
"Evening," Jack mumbled in English, placing his broom against the counter and dusting off his hands, "Can I get you guys anything else?"
It was the unnerving silence that sent Jack the first alert. The older man forced a smile, shaking his head. "No, thank you sir."
He put on a middle-eastern accent, probably on the assumption Jack didn't speak Russian. Jack nodded, not breaking his stance. "What brings you out here tonight? It's cold as heck out there."
"Just out on a stroll, stopped to sit down." A younger man said, the tone and pacing of the phrase obviously rehearsed. Jack wanted to roll his eyes; who were these amateurs?
"Overheard you saying something about the Counter Terrorist Unit down the way. They've been on the news lately, haven't they? About that revolt coming up eh?"
"Yes." The older man mumbled, looking distracted and uncomfortable. "I didn't know you could speak Russian."
"You don't know a lot of things about me." Jack said, the threat rolling off his tongue as if it was made of gravel.
The second round of silence was expected after that statement. The three seemed more uncomfortable than ever. Jack still stood firm before them.
"You should mind your own business," One of the younger men replied sharply, only to be gutted by the elbow of his smoking partner.
"I was just getting to that. We don't allow private business talk around here," Jack said to the older man directly, as genuinely as he could, "Prevents roughhousing. Like what those two just displayed."
The third bout of silence caused the third alert. Jack watched the reaction in all three of the mens eyes very closely. The gazes grew bright in anger. The old man scowled.
Jack leaned forward with elbows on the bar, speaking softly, "And the last I checked, we don't give service to terrorists - "
The first swing of a punch was utterly wide and expected, and Jack grabbed the fist of the younger man who swung and twisted the arm down to hit the counter with a crack. Jack grabbed the back of the mans head and copied the maneuver, giving as sharp twist to his neck afterwards.
Before Jack could blink the other young man leapt over the bar and grabbed Jack in a chock hold. Though they struggled for a moment, the man's build and weight were no match to his opponent; Jack mustered the momentum to bash him into the glass shelf behind them.
If anyone in the bar had been anything besides conscious before the quarrel, that changed in a heartbeat. Customers screamed and most fled, some stood back to watch whilst ringing 911. In the heat of the fight, Jack's eyes got a glimpse of the old man's headpiece in his peripheral, a blur of colour fleeing out the front door. He cursed. A crucial tip in takedown was to keep your eyes on your enemy; clearly this was telltale sign that Jack hadn't done this in a while.
Jack coughed and winced, sensing each shard of glass in him as he struggled to his feet; he was getting too old for this, maybe that was the reason. Screw it, he thought, denying the pain in his body and leaping over the bar single-handedly, pushing past people and sprinting out the front door. He found the rifle tucked beneath the back of his belt and loaded it as he ran, eyes searching for the old man in the dark, empty streets.
It didn't take very long. A shadow ducked and turned a corner into an alleyway, and Jack picked up speed on the slippery cement and followed. Street lights illuminated the now frail looking man who's feeble attempt of escape had ended with a face first skid on the ground. Jack grabbed the back of his collar and lifted, flinging him toward the side of a building and aiming the gun at his head.
The mans head piece had unraveled, and he began to cry in fear as he raised his trembling hands, "Please sir, please do not hurt me - "
"Shut up." Jack growled, "How did you find me?"
"Sir, I do not know, I am just - "
"How did you find me?!"
The man looked about, left to right, as if hoping someone would come to his aid. Wind whistled. Jack took a few steps closer, and his captive winced.
"Alright . . . we were only sent to find you - "
"I know that. You were sent under the radar, considering the hour. You spoke Russian to get my attention, and neither of you carried a weapon because you weren't supposed to kill me."
Jack heard sirens, probably still on the other side of town, but it meant he was running out of time.
"Who sent you?" He grabbed the mans collar and shoved the gun into his chest hard, "You better start talking before my finger slips the trigger."
"No, please!" The man was half curled over in fear, mewling in pain and struggling to speak clearly. "W-we had . . . to ensure you were alive. There is a prize for your head, Mr. Bauer . . . a certain man wants you dead, and whoever can prove they do it . . . receives money."
A bounty on his head. Jack scowled, feeling the familiar smoulder of anger in his gut. Just what he needed. He forced his gaze to stay steady. "Who wants me dead?"
"I do not know!" The man sobbed, "I do not, I promise you . . . we were hired to find you before another man did."
The noises had increased, and Jack's patience did the opposite. He threw a punch across the mans jaw, "Who?!"
The elders whimpers turned to a shout of pain, blood streaking his dark skin and beard. ". . . V-vasilyev . . . "
Tires squealed up the street, lights nearly revealing their location. The man knew far to much to be let go, let alone found by police. The man sobbed, incoherent pleads of mercy still trembling in Jack's grip of his collar as Jack moved the barrel of the gun to his aged temple. Sympathy cut, but it was dulled by years of this. Jack could barely see the weak old man before him, probably only talked into the job by his sons greedy youthfulness. He only saw a threat, an enemy. Just like always, the feeling wasn't nearly strong enough.
Jack ran off, sprinting down the dark streets just as the footsteps of police began to advance. He only heard the gunshot, only registered the dead blank eyes and bleeding skull on the pavement, only felt the momentary whisp of guilt when the weight of bullets in his rifle lessened in his hand
Thanks! Please review, input, opinions, anything! Thanks so much! :3