"Yes, fellas, I'm not a terrorist, no bombs, headscarves, or anything." George was standing in the security booth in Divisional Headquarters, CTU LA. A blue-uniformed security guard ran a metal detector up and down George's sides.

"I'm sorry sir, but you know it's procedure." He stepped back and nodded, and George grunted and scooped up his sidearm and keys from the small metal tray alongside the detector. "Yeah, just remind me that when the budget report comes in." He said as he shouldered his way through the double doors into a brightly-lit corridor of identical office cubbyholes containing identical-looking CTU agents. He exchanged a curt nod with a few and looks of apprehension from the rest. George wasn't known for either his tolerance or his temper, and more than one CTU agent had felt the biting Mason wit at 8am in the morning. George headed along the hallway until he reached a glass-panelled conference room, where CTU personnel were waiting with coffee cups and notepads ready. George pushed open the door and threw his coat over the nearest chair, sitting and motioned for the nearest agent to pass him a cup of coffee. He sipped the liquid gingerly. He hated it when he burned his tongue.

"So what have we got? What's so urgent that Chappelle called me away from a nice TV dinner?" George glared at all of them in turn before sighing and ripping a page off the agent nearest him's notepad. He could really be a bastard sometimes. In answer an agent flicked on the TV screen and Ryan Chappelle's face appeared, along with those of several other Divisional Directors and their staff. George smiled slightly. Chappelle was a tight-assed bureaucratic idiot, and was sweating and red, no doubt being shit upon from way high. George didn't like Chappelle. Not one bit.

"Hello Ryan. Gentlemen. What can I do for you?" He spoke politely. Ryan cut to the chase.

"Listen George. What we're here for is serious. The terror attacks in Washington DC have put way too much heat on CTU. We're in deep trouble here. Congress is voting next week on a reduction of our budget and manpower, and the future of this organisation is on the line."

Goerge looked unconcerned.

Chappelle smiled nastily. "So this is the last chance. We believe that the perpetrators of the attacks are going to strike again in the next 48 hours...in LA."

George sat bolt upright. "What?"

Chappelle's face twisted into a smile that old Lucifer himself would've envied as he continued, George's expression gradually darkening in anger. "Yes, George, in L.A. So we're all counting on you to stop this guy before he gets away. I'll fax you the details now. And George? I'm counting on you."

The screen went dark and George sat perfectly still for an instant before slowly balling up the piece of notepad paper and throwing it at the screen. With a single careless action Chappelle had scapegoated George Mason and the entire of CTU Division, California, so that his ass was well and truly covered. George's anger was simmering but he couldn't blame Chappelle- after all, George would've done the same thing. It was just the game. He rose and spun the chair with his foot down the table before speaking. "So people, Chappelle wants to bury us to cover his ass. So we're gonna make sure he regrets it. He'd better bury us real deep." No-one made a sound as George Mason stalked from the conference room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

George sat at his large desk, a sheaf of paper held in his trembling hands. My God. They were truly, truly screwed. Chappelle's information was nothing, hardly worth the paper it was printed on. It described the man they were after, an Achmed Bin Salah. A photo had been provided, but it was prettey much useless, seeing as it was grainy and old, dating from way back in 1988. George swore bitterly and slammed the papers down, his tie suddenly seeming too tight. He didn't loosen it however, preferring to swear instead and pick up his phone, giving a series of sharp orders to the agents at the other end.

George closed the door to his office and moved quickly down the hallway towards the exit, a mobile phone gripped in his hands. He was talking earnestly to the LAPD.

"Yes, captain, I understand the problem, but we really have no other choice. And we have very little time in which to react, so do it fast." George hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, opening the door to the garage and walking in. The garage was cold, as it was nine o'clock at night. George crossed the cold clammy floor, draughts whipping up the ends of his trouser legs.

"Mr. Mason?" The voice came suddenly.

George spun and faced it. A young agent he wasn't familiar with was standing beside a plain government sedan, keys in hand.

"What is it?" Snapped George as he slowed.

"Sir, you are planning to go out there?" Said the agent, motioning to the car and obviously the field work.

George frowned. "Yes. Got a problem? We're a little short of time and I don't have any to spare talking to you." The young agent winced and responded hesitantly.

"I was going to offer to give you a hand, sir." George's frown deepened. "I don't need any help, thanks anyway." George chucled as he drove from the carpark, as the young agent stared after him, uncomprehending.

The phone in his pocket rang as he was waiting at a red light. George grumbled as he fished into his jacket pocket, retreiving it after a few moments' scrabbling. He pressed it to his ear.

"Mason." He said as the light turned green and the other cars around his moved off. George changed gears with difficulty, pressing down on the accelerator and moving in and out of the other cars. The night was wearing on, and he hadn't much time to catch this guy, and George felt the first strands of tension grip him.

"Yeah. George. It's Tony Almeida down at CTU LA."

George changed lanes and rocketed across an empty street, his car flashing across in an instant. He dredged deep into his memory, finally locating Almeida. Of course. The new CTU guy, fresh from the marines. Or something.

"Tony, what is it. I'm slightly busy right now." Said George as the city lights flashed by his car.

"Well, uh, one of our analysts was going through the files Mr. Chappelle sent over and, we've, got a match."

George was jerked upright in his seat. "Yes, Tony. Good news!" He crowed to the empty car. "What's the word?"

"Well, that's the problem. We've sent two of our agents over to the address, which was apparently his brothers house. No-one home, but my agents are waiting outside for him to come back."

George swung the car to a stop outside a pharmacy and stepped out of the car, feeling the cool night air caress his face.

"Doesn't it seem a bit too convienient that the brother would use his real name? Is he even involved in terrorism?" George wanted to know as he took a box of pills off the woman behind the counter, nodding politely as he paid.

"We're not sure. But we have no other leads and if anything we'll get more on Achmed."

George leant against the wall outside and swallowed one of the pills. It was in fact a headache pill, and George knew that these two days were going to get invariably worse.

"Fine. When he gets back, bring him in. We were incredibly lucky to get something so fast, so don't squander the good work you've done here tonight, Tony. I'm on my way to CTU LA now. Tell-" Suddenly all that Tony heard was a sudden sharp intake of breath, the sound of George's phone clattering to the ground, and a sharp high chattering that Tony recognized from his army days, not too long ago.

Gunfire.

"George!" He yelled into the phone. "George!"

Silence. The line had just been cut.